The Three of Us
by nondescriptf
Summary: New Year's Eve and holiday fluff.  Oneshot.  Rated M just to be safe.  Chuck and Blair.


_**May 19th**_

It's six p.m. when he finally makes it home, and Chuck is tired as hell. As per his wife's decree, they have to spend their birthdays together, _no matter what_. And this year, _no matter what_ consisted of him leaving an eight hour negotiation to rush to the airport, only to spend seventeen hours sitting on a plane just to get home on time. He won't admit it out loud, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Blair?" Chuck calls out as he walks into their penthouse.

Silence is the only thing that greets him. He sighs loudly and heads down the hall to his home office. It has been two long weeks since he's seen his wife and it's _his_ birthday, he thinks irritably. He tosses down his briefcase, shrugs out of his suit jacket and loosens his tie. Instead of taking a seat behind the mahogany desk, he walks over to the mini-bar and pours himself a splash of scotch. According to Blair's text message, she should be home soon. _Not soon enough_, he grumbles to himself as he sits in the armchair adjacent to the fireplace.

The only thing that keeps him from acting childishly and going to bed early is the fact that he has missed her like crazy. Plus, he reminds himself, his birthday equals both a strip tease and lap dance from her. After years of complaining, he had finally conceded that it was unseemly for her to strip for him on _her_ birthday. The new agreement, which started three years ago, calls for their cherished ritual to take place on _his_ birthday instead. It amuses him that Blair hasn't stopped herself from performing for him on the night before her birthday, as well.

When the door creaks open a couple of minutes later, he looks up. He smiles in male appreciation at the sight of his wife leaning against the door, wearing nothing but a very sheer, very short, purple negligee.

"Welcome home," Blair purrs while she slinks towards him seductively.

"You look absolutely delicious," he admits, biting his lip in anticipation. He sits back in his chair, takes a large gulp of his drink and waits for her to take the lead. He wants nothing more than to kiss her and hold her in his arms, but he knows that look on her face—Blair has a plan, and whatever she wants, she gets.

With great deliberation, she takes a seat on his lap. She runs one hand through his hair, and nuzzles her nose against his ear. His fingers itch to touch her, but he behaves himself, Blair's rules dictate _no hands_. Chuck is forced to exert restraint, while she endeavors to make him lose control. Her lips leisurely press kisses on his jaw, her teeth grazing his skin as her hands start toying with his necktie. He is impatient, even though he is very much enjoying the way she is choosing to reacquaint herself with his body. It seems like an eternity, but her hands finally make their way to unbuckle his belt and she unzips his pants.

Blair teases him almost cruelly, her wet folds grinding against his painfully hard cock, over and over. He's so close and wants nothing more than to slip inside of her, but instead she breaks contact and hovers above him, refusing to give in. When he can't take her exquisite torture any longer, his hands grip her hips and she sinks down onto him. They both let out mewls of pleasure at the familiar sensation. It's been far too long since they've been joined like this, and their pace is frantic, hurried. He leans up to kiss her, but Blair turns her head and just manages to avoid her lips being captured by his.

Repeatedly, he tries to kiss her, but she eludes him. This is a game they seldom play, one in which she refuses to let him kiss her on the mouth. Normally it excites him, but having been unable to kiss her for weeks, it does nothing but frustrate him. He settles for sucking on her neck—he's sure to leave a mark, but he doesn't care. She increases the tempo and soon they cross over the edge and are gasping for air.

Chuck's forehead is damp with sweat and Blair's face is buried in the crook of his neck. He lets out a soft sigh of relief, when her nails slowly unclench their tight grip on his shoulders.

"Happy birthday, Chuck," Blair murmurs a few minutes later when they finally catch their breath.

"This was a wonderful welcome home," he acknowledges. "Now, be a good wife and kiss your husband hello."

Again she refuses and pulls away, a playful smile dances on her lips.

He attempts a menacing look as he growls his disapproval. She points to the almost empty tumbler of scotch on the table next to them and shakes her head.

"Since when don't you like the taste of scotch on me?" He scoffs.

"Since I found out that alcohol isn't good for the baby," she says casually.

A quick retort is on the tip of his tongue, but then her words slowly sink in. Blair bats her eyes innocently.

"The baby?" He stutters.

"The baby." She confirms. Shyly, she adds, "I found a few days ago, but it didn't seem right to tell you over the phone."

His hands immediately find their way to her flat stomach. With wonder, he asks, "How far along are you?"

"Two months."

He does the math quickly in his head. "A December baby?"

She nods.

"We're going to be parents."

"And _you_ are going to be a father," she says with emphasis.

His heart starts to beat rapidly, _he_ is going to be a father. There is a quick moment of panic, but before it can overwhelm him, Blair's lips brush his, and he relaxes in the comfort of her kiss.

He doesn't know how she always manages to do it—set things up to strike the perfect chord. It's her way of telling him that his birthday doesn't have to symbolize death, that it's really the celebration of life. And now he will never be able to think about his birthday without remembering it as the day he learned he was going to be a father. The words _I love you_ never seem to be enough to express how he feels about Blair.

"I thought you said that alcohol wasn't good for the baby," he mumbles against her mouth.

She kisses him again, deeply, his face cradled in her hands. He can't stop himself from pouting when she pulls away—the kiss not nearly long enough for his liking.

"I think it's too small an amount for it to do any damage," she concedes with a smile.

"_You_ are going to be a mother," he informs her.

"Do you think I'll be a good one?" She asks with a hint of nervousness.

"The best," he answers without hesitation.

"How can you be so sure?"

"The baby will be loved by you…what else could he or she possibly need?"

"You," she says seriously. "The baby will need you, Chuck."

He rests his forehead against hers. "This is my favorite birthday."

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_**Early September**_

They take it as a sign that Blair doesn't start to show until she's almost six months pregnant, that this is supposed to be their little secret. There is something satisfying about the fact that no one else knows there is a living being growing inside her stomach. They are almost children again, exchanging secret smiles, sly winks and smirks of superiority.

When he thinks about it, it surprises him, just how private both he and Blair are about the pregnancy. He used to think they would want to shout it from the top of their lungs to anyone who could hear, but instead they snuggle in bed together and speak in whispers. They confide in each other all their wants and plans, Blair always has so many plans and he wants nothing more than to make sure he fulfills every last one of them.

He isn't quite sure if it's because she has the glow of pregnancy—she's never been sexier—or maybe it's the caveBass in him, but he just can't get enough of her. He actually cannot recall a time when they've had more sex than since he found out that they were going to be parents. It works in his favor that she is equally, if not more, insatiable as he is—they are in sync with each other.

When the loose summer dresses aren't quite so loose anymore, Chuck and Blair know their time is up. In the guise of an intimate dinner party, they reluctantly announce to their family and close friends their wonderful news. Everyone is equal parts thrilled and surprised, especially when they find out how far along she is, but no one voices the obvious question—_why wait so long to share the news_?

Serena and Nate stay behind after everyone else leaves, the accusation in their eyes unmistakable.

"I can't believe you two kept this from us," Serena sulks.

"I didn't even tell _Dorota_," Blair says while she rolls her eyes.

Serena gasps in indignation.

"Look, we didn't tell anyone," Chuck clarifies, pulling Blair closer to him.

"But we aren't just anyone," Nate reminds them. "We're you're best friends."

"It wasn't so much that we were keeping it from you," he starts to confess.

"It's just that this was all ours," Blair interrupts as her hand falls gently to her slightly expanding tummy. "Besides, you know Chuck and I hate sharing."

The joke breaks the ice, and Serena jumps up from her chair and shoves her way in between he and Blair. His sister pushes him off the couch and her hands cover Blair's.

"I can't believe I'm going to be an aunt!" Serena squeals excitedly.

Nate claps a hand on his shoulder and gives him a hug. "Congratulations, man!"

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" Serena asks, as she and Nate swap positions so they can extend more well wishes.

"We do," Blair admits coyly.

"And?" Nate prompts.

"That's for us to know, and everyone else to find out after Blair gives birth," Chuck answers.

"Seriously?" "Boo!"

The Basses shrug in unison and say nothing, after all, _he_ is _theirs_.

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_**November 15th**_

For the first time, Blair doesn't wish to celebrate her birthday. To everyone's surprise, no party is thrown, and Chuck and Blair spend the day camped out alone in their bedroom, just cuddling and watching movies. Blair's excuse is that she doesn't wish to be paraded around like a beached whale, but honestly, she has just grown tired of all the fuss. She has been thrown five different baby showers, and even the thought of being at yet another event and surrounded by people, seems unappealing.

Her birthday is completely uneventful except for one fact—they have finally agreed on _his_ name.

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_**Thanksgiving**_

He wakes up on her favorite Thursday of the year to find a cranky Blair staring him in the face. He would find it creepy, if this hadn't been the protocol over the past month. Since Halloween, the first thing he sees each morning is his wife glaring at him unhappily. He found it amusing until the third day when she woke him up at 4 a.m. and informed him that the aroma of his shampoo was nausea-inducing. She refused to drop the subject and demanded he get out of bed, wash his hair with an alternate brand, and change the sheets. He stopped himself from pointing out that the scent she found oh-so-despicable was one that she had chosen for him.

But this is only the beginning, as her senses are now super sensitive and constantly changing. It is a small price to pay, considering her entire pregnancy, up until now, has been gloriously easy. However, by the time her favorite holiday rolls around, she is in rare form. She is so prickly, that behind her back, Nate asks him if Blair was bitten by a radioactive spider, because her enhanced abilities qualify as spidey-senses.

Her mood sours, instead of lightens, when Harold and Roman fly in early the week of Thanksgiving with no plans to leave until well after the New Year. They wish to be available at the drop of the hat, in case the baby makes an early arrival. It isn't their presence that upsets Blair, more that they remind her how she cannot celebrate her favorite holiday the way she likes to. She will not be baking a pie with her father, as the smell of pumpkins gives her a blinding headache. If that isn't enough of a crime, her appetite has virtually disappeared. Her plan to take advantage of her condition to gorge on holiday food is now foiled, and she laments her missed opportunity.

The expression _Chuck Bass, this is all your fault_, becomes her mantra, as Chuck hears those words no less than a dozen times each day.

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_**December 6th**_

Against his better judgment, Chuck lets Blair convince him she should accompany him to the cemetery. She contends that just because she's eight-and-a-half months pregnant, there is no reason for him to treat her like an invalid. He spends nearly thirty minutes bundling her up in warm winter gear, listening as she complains non-stop how she can dress herself. When the topic regarding footwear arises—_no heels_, he insists—they glare at each other for another thirty minutes in silence. Finally, she relents and kicks her legs out, so he can place the unattractive, flat boots on her feet.

Standing at his father's grave, his hand clutched in Blair's, Chuck softly says that _he_ will become a father this year. His eyes are wet, and he has never wished that Bart was still here, more than in this moment. He wants a cheat sheet of everything not to do, because he wants to be not just a good father, but a great one. It comforts him when he realizes a moment later, that Bart must have done something right, because Chuck knows unequivocally, that he loved his father.

"Chuck," Blair squeaks.

The tone of her voice and the way her hand squeezes his, ever so tightly, inspires a small sense of panic. He turns his head towards his wife, and sees her face clenched in pain.

"Blair?" He asks with worry.

She takes a deep breath. "I think my water just broke."

"Are you sure?"

She nods.

He scoops her up in his arms and rushes her into the limo. He barks out instructions for Arthur to take them to the hospital. Blair's eyes are closed, her head rests against the soft leather seats. Their little one is proving to be just as impatient as both his parents. Instead of arriving on schedule, he decides that now is the moment for him to make his entrance into the world. He pays no mind to the fact that today is the anniversary of his grandfather's death, no, the baby thinks this is the perfect time for his mommy to go into labor.

They decide to wait until they are settled at the hospital before making any calls. It seems she is dialating at a remarkably slow place. Their son is apparently going to take his sweet time, and will come out when he's ready, and not one second before.

"He's already prone to dramatics," Blair says with a smile. "He must take after his…"

"Mother." "Father." They finish the sentence in unison.

It's past eight p.m. when she decides she wishes to speak to someone. Instead of handing Blair her phone, he pulls out his own and starts to dial a number.

"Who are you calling?" She asks with annoyance, upset he hasn't checked with her first.

"The person you want to speak to," he answers cockily.

"Well, if you're calling Dorota—."

Chuck interrupts her by shaking his head 'no'. Blair seems strangely pleased.

"Not S, right?"

"Not until later," he corrects.

"So who are you calling?" She sounds hopeful.

"As if you don't already know," he teases her. "I'm calling your mother."

She sighs happily. "I love that you know me so well."

"You know Eleanor will never let your father hear the end of this, right?"

Blair shrugs. "Times like these, a girl just wants her mother, and no one else will do."

"What am I, chopped liver?" He asks drolly.

"You're the sperm donor," she deadpans.

"Oh, I think I'm a lot more than that."

"You're his Daddy," she says seriously. A beat later, she lightens the mood by tacking on, "You're the second most important person in his life, after me."

He knows he should frown, but he can't help but agree.

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_**December 7th – 5:19 a.m.**_

The sound of Grayson Charles Bass crying as he enters the world imprints into Chuck's mind like a perfect memory. In a daze, he cuts the umbilical cord, but his eyes tear up when he sees his wife holding their son. Blair is exhausted, it's been over sixteen hours since her water broke, but she looks absolutely breathtaking. In that moment, everything ceases being _his _or _hers_—well, truthfully, everything was Blair's—and transforms into _ours_. The two most selfish people in the world unite for a common cause—their son.

Her eyes mirror his own happiness, and she beckons him over to have a closer look. They look at their son in awe—he is so tiny and beautiful and perfect. He leans over and presses a soft kiss on Grayson's forehead before he does the same to his wife.

The only words he can say tumble out, "Thank you, for our son."

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_**Christmas Eve**_

From the moment they bring him home from the hospital, they barely leave their room, or their bed, for that matter. It takes less than a day for Chuck and Blair to realize that they cannot stand for Grayson to be cared for by anyone other than themselves. Dorota is sworn to secrecy—contracts have been signed and bribes doled out—it can't be known that the Basses voluntarily change diapers or bathe their son. Blair's trusty maid is on hand for the first couple of days to insure they learn the basics. It becomes a relief when they finally get the hang of it, because other than the moments when they are plagued by unwelcomed guests, it is just the three of them together, nesting in their home.

Even amidst the solitude of their new family dynamic, Chuck and Blair both find themselves at odds with each other. It is with mutual understanding that they recognize how each of them wants to do every last thing for their son. On occasion, they even wish the other would leave the room, just so they can have their beautiful boy to themselves. But the fact that Grayson is the manifestation of their love, reminds them to share him with each other as equally as possible, because they are _not_ their parents. And they relish the fact that no matter what happens, they have created this perfect little being together, and he is the evidence of everything good within both of them.

Grayson is ten days old when they start debating the merits of never leaving their house again and spending every waking moment with him. Blair figures that between Chuck's fortune and her trust fund, they have the financial means to never work again. This would make them rather stalkerish parents, but strangely, neither of them finds that the least bit disturbing. They rationalize that they are giving him every possible advantage—namely, their unconditional love.

With all four of Blair's parents in residence, they know that Christmas will be no small ordeal. Harold and Eleanor pull out all the stops, as they cannot stop talking about the many ways they plan on commemorating Grayson's first Christmas. They consider it a minor miracle that they manage to elude their friends and family for Christmas Eve. It is the holiday that Chuck and Blair both covet, especially with Blair's penchant for celebrating things at midnight.

After dinner, they each open a present from the other for Grayson, as well as one gift of their own. They 'ooh' and 'ahh', but Chuck knows Christmas has come early this year, and the only gift that matters is currently cuddled in his wife's arms.

"Oh, I almost forgot, we have to read him 'Twas the Night Before Christmas'," Blair reminds him. "Daddy used to read it to me every Christmas Eve. Will you please get the book from his nursery?"

Chuck makes his way to the formal nursery that Grayson has yet to spend even one second in. It is unbearable for them to be far from him, and so he sleeps with them in their bed. He loves the idea of creating their family's traditions. When he steps back into the doorway he hears Blair call their son, "Mon petit prince."

"Should I be relieved that there are no Christmas fairy tales and we have a poem instead? Perhaps, growing up with a fairy tale complex doesn't have to be genetic," Chuck says playfully, but he is only partially joking.

She sends him a glare before turning her back to him and then murmurs again, "Mon prince parfait petit."

"Well, you are the Queen B," he concedes as he edges closer.

Blair stifles a smirk as she stares at their son. A moment later, she catches his eye and softly says, "I don't think there's anything wrong with him believing in fairy tales. He will soon learn that dreams do come true. _We_ are a fairy tale—you are my King, and I am your Queen, and Grayson is our petit prince."

He has to hand it to her, when put in that light, he cannot possibly disagree.

"Now, will you please read our son 'Twas the Night Before Christmas', before he falls asleep?" Blair asks bossily.

He nods as he sits down next to her in front of the fireplace. Tomorrow will be hectic, with half the day spent with her three fathers and mother, followed by a couple of hours in the company of the van der Woodsens-Humphreys. And only after all that, will they be allowed to be their own little family.

Chuck pauses to savor this moment—_just the three of us_, he thinks. A beat later he opens up the hardcover book with the beautifully illustrated drawings and begins to read, "Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse..."

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_**New Year's Eve**_

It's just after seven p.m. and the lights of Manhattan twinkle brightly. All around the city, there is a frenzied energy, the feel of anticipation—after all, tonight is the night to usher out the old and bring in the new.

The ding of the elevator doors sliding shut, confirms that the last of the interlopers have finally left. The last two hours have been pure torture, as both he and Blair's families took it upon themselves to arrive unannounced. Ok, perhaps that's a slight exaggeration—given the choice between attending a gathering at Eleanor's or hosting one, they reluctantly concede to hold the get-together at their home. They spend the entire time watching as their son gets passed around from person to person. Their uninvited guests all fail to recognize that Grayson should only be held by them.

They ignore the loud complaints from Eleanor and Harold that they—mind you, Grayson's parents—are monopolizing their grandson. Lily says she can't agree more, and even Nate and Serena pile on. Eleanor's threat to kidnap Grayson is met with silence and dirty looks from both Chuck and Blair, while everyone else around them laughs wholeheartedly. They somehow manage to stop themselves from snatching their son back and unceremoniously kicking every one out.

No one seems to believe or understand that they have no desire to see or interact with anyone. In fact, each unwelcome call or pressure for a visit becomes an irritation—a reason for them to cocoon themselves even deeper out of sight from the rest of the real world. How can't everyone see that the three of them have everything they need—_each other_?

Chuck waits for a couple of minutes to pass, just to make sure that no one will be returning. It seems a touch paranoid, but he has had it up to _here_ with the number of intrusions. When glorious silence is all that remains, he lets out a sigh of relief, and he can now return to his bubble of happiness. His pace is quick, as he practically runs to their bedroom. He pulls open the door, and the image that greets him makes the smile on his face stretch to ridiculous proportions.

Blair looks up and smiles back, before she asks, "Are they all gone?"

He nods. "It's just the three of us."

She bites her lip as the corners of her mouth turn upwards, she loves the way those words sound just as much as he does. He can't help but marvel at how naturally that phrase rolls off his tongue. He wants to say those words over and over and over again, because that is who _he_ is, who he's become—one of the_ three of us_. They are a family now.

"The three of us," Blair repeats with a sigh of contentment.

He leans over and kisses her lightly on the lips, before stretching out on his side of the bed. He mirrors her pose as they both stare at the only thing that can make both of them ignore each other and themselves—their son.

Grayson makes a face as his arms wave in the air, and without thinking they both do it—he and Blair each extend a finger, so his tiny little hands will wrap around them.

"He is so perfect," Chuck whispers.

"He is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Blair whispers back.

Grayson lays awake, blinking his large, brown eyes back and forth at them. Blair leans over and peppers light kisses across his face, making their son gurgle in delight. Her face glows, happy that her attention is welcome, and she rests her head so she is at eye-level with their baby.

All of this gives Chuck a thrill, these tiny, seemingly inconsequential moments. Every last second is profound and overwhelming, and full of bliss. He basks in the communion of their family. When it is just the three of them, there is no such thing as too intimate. It's his turn to lean over and nuzzle his nose against the softness of his son's skin. No matter how close he is, it never seems close enough.

Simultaneously, Blair and Grayson both yawn, and Chuck can't help but love how in rhythm the two of them are. He hates the petty feeling of jealousy that arises within him, because he wants to share that too. It feels similar to watching Blair when she nurses, how Grayson's mouth latches onto her breast. She nourishes their son, they way she's nourished Chuck's soul, and it is beautiful and awe-inspiring.

All of this is a revelation to him, because he has never experienced this kind of love before. The type of love he is most acquainted with is the way he loves Blair—madly, completely, unflinchingly, and to distraction. The only other type of love he knows is riddled with disappointment and unmet expectations, the never-ending quest for approval. But the love he feels for his son leaves him speechless. It is terrifying and exhilarating and wraps up every hope and dream with every fear and worry, and yet it instills him with a sense of peace. And Blair is the one who has given this to him. She has taken all the broken parts of him and has fit them into her, and now they are forever linked together through their son.

"Thank you for our son," he whispers as her eyes flutter shut. He repeats these words to her every night and sometimes several times during the day. He cannot stop saying it—_thank you for our son_. He says these words freely and without obligation, because they are nothing less than the absolute truth.

"Thank _you_ for our son," she answers back, her eyes opening to stare at him. She shifts closer to the baby, and ultimately closer to him. She tugs her hand gently from Grayson's grip and brushes her hand against Chuck's cheek, her thumb stroking the line of his cheekbone.

"I love you, Chuck."

He covers her hand on his face with his own. He never thought he could have everything, but he does.

"I love you, Blair."

They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, until Grayson makes a noise, demanding they return their focus back on him. Chuck turns his face and kisses the palm of Blair's hand before letting go. When both their eyes are on him, Grayson babbles, his arms again raised and waiting to claim their fingers once more.

And that's how they spend their New Year's Eve, Chuck and Blair sprawled out on their sides, forming a circle, and watching their son. They all drift off to sleep around the nine o'clock hour, ending the year exactly how they want to start the new one—just the three of them, together.

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_**fin**_

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><p>AN: As always, thank you uncorazonquebrado for your exquisite beta work. Does it make me crazy that I look forward to reading your beta comments?

It felt like the right thing to do to end this year and kick off the next with some Chuck and Blair fluff. Although, the fluffsplosion tank might officially be empty.

Happy New Year! The optimist in me will hope that this year brings Chuck and Blair back together in a way that isn't overly contrived or comical, and shows them as the truly EPIC couple they are.


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